


Listening

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his experiences at the end of time, Bruce needs someone to listen to him.  Clark is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening

Dick Grayson looked at Superman from the Fortress screen.

No, it was Batman. Dick was Batman, and so was Bruce.

Clark wasn't sure he was going to be able to get used to that.

"I'd rather not drop in on him unannounced," Clark said.

Dick made a scoffing noise. "When has that ever stopped you?"

 _Since I thought I held his dead body in my arms_ , Clark thought but did not say. _Since I mourned him for a year._ "I don't really understand what the problem is, Dick. You say he seems happy--"

"--He seems _cheerful_ , Clark. _Cheerful._ Do I really need to tell you why this is disturbing?" Dick crossed his arms--not angrily, but more like he was worried and trying to reassure himself. "He's...not sleeping well."

Clark frowned. "I'll come by if it's bothering you, Dick. I just hope he won't be angry."

Dick laughed weakly. "Oh, I doubt that, Clark. Please. Just come."

 **: : :**

" _Clark_!" Bruce was in civilian clothes. He looked overjoyed to see him, which startled Clark considerably. "Thank God you're here. I need someone to talk to."

"Oh?"

The table in the cave was covered with a random assortment of things: maps of Africa, a pair of swim goggles, a protractor, a scattering of camera lens, a lace doily, bits and pieces of what seemed to be a model railroad. There were sticky notes everywhere: "Possible, but check North Maluku province," "55.3%--too low?" "Dipterocarpaceae--Hopea."

"Yes!" Bruce grabbed his arm and steered him to a seat. "Everyone else is too busy. That's good, they all have things to do, parts to play. But I need someone to _listen_ to me for a little while." Bruce bit his lip. His eyes were red with exhaustion, his face stubbly. "Are you free? You probably have things you need to do."

"I cleared my schedule," Clark assured him. "Barring emergencies, I'm here as long as you need me."

Bruce started talking.

Apparently he had some theories about a potential drug to be extracted from an endangered Indonesian plant that could help with spinal cord injuries. But in order to make sure the plant wasn't destroyed by logging, he had to invest in several Indonesian companies and get involved in Indonesian politics. He was planning on sending Tim there to make some contacts.

"But it's all connected, Clark. You can't isolate any one part of it, Indonesian politics connect to Asian politics and to the world economy, and to culture, you have to understand them all, right?"

At this point Bruce's explanation appeared to derail into a discussion of Baroque painting and the Catholic Church's influence on art of the time. Clark listened, frowning. Bruce seemed to feel strongly that there was a connection between the Indonesian ecosystem and the Italian Baroque period, and as he was talking, Clark could _almost_ see it, a vast web of interlinking effects... But now Bruce was talking about British family history societies and genealogy, and the pattern sank back into obscurity. It was _there_ , Clark could sense it, but he wasn't able to follow Bruce's dizzying leaps of logic and intuition.

Clark watched his friend's face as he gestured, moving around the cave restlessly. It was exalted, nearly transfigured: energy and excitement seemed to crackle through him.

He was also exhausted and hungry, and he didn't even seem to notice.

"When did you last get some sleep?" Clark asked, interrupting a detailed discussion of the effects of population density on human development.

Bruce looked annoyed. "I don't know. I've had enough sleep," he said. "I don't _need_ to sleep. What I need is _time_!" He stared down at the pile of scraps and oddments on the table. "I can do this, Clark. I can get it--get it all to work. Get it all to make sense."

His hands were shaking slightly.

"You can't, Bruce," Clark said softly, and Bruce's face tightened.

"Yes, I _can_." He swung to glare at Clark. "Don't you understand? There at the Vanishing Point, at the end of all time...for a moment there I knew it _all_. Everything." He scrubbed at his face with trembling hands. "I saw how it all connected. A great web of light, reflecting itself into infinity. I just need to remember as much as possible. Then I can--I can--"

Clark stood, put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "The mind isn't meant to hold that much information, Bruce. You can't fix everything."

"I have to _try._ I can't just _waste_ what I saw, Clark!"

"It would be more of a waste if you destroyed yourself trying, Bruce. You're suffering from what the Kryptonian scientists called _irryl-shaizh,_ information-sickness. You need to rest."

" _Irryl-shaizh_? That's a strange use of the term _irryl_ there. 'Information' with a negative inflection? That's unusual for Kryptonian," Bruce said. "It reminds me of the Basque..." and he was off again, talking about grammar and terministic screens, citing Foucault. As he spoke, his hand clenched in Clark's cape as if he were grabbing for a life line. "I can't," he said, helplessly, interrupting himself. "I can't stop. I can't, Clark."

 _Help me,_ said the desperate clasp on his cape.

Clark bent down and scooped Bruce off his feet and into his arms. "No," said Bruce. "No. I need to write this down."

"I'll remember it for you," said Clark, carrying Bruce toward the stairs. "You keep talking. I'll remember it all."

A long sigh, like a weight sinking, and Bruce started talking again as Clark carried him upstairs. He explained about the use of glass fibers as a radar countermeasure as Clark carefully unbuttoned his shirt and got him out of his slacks. He had moved on to the geology of Antarctica by the time Clark gently pushed him down onto the pillow.

He sat up again with a start. "Are you really getting all this, Clark? You're really listening?"

"You were saying you should ask Cyril and Beryl to go to Antarctica and take some rock samples on Stickle Ridge," Clark said, easing him back down. "I'm listening, Bruce. You can keep talking, just lie down."

Bruce nodded against the pillow, mussing his hair. "I can't sleep," he explained. "I need to get these ideas out of my head."

"You will," Clark said. He sat down on the bed next to Bruce and took one of his hands in his. "Just take a moment and concentrate on my hand, okay? On my touch." He moved his thumb slowly over Bruce's knuckles, sweeping back and forth, back and forth. "Focus on that point for just a little while, Bruce."

"The rocks on Stickle Ridge," Bruce said. "Geological surveys show..."

He yawned.

Clark nodded, still holding his hand, a tiny warm intersection of contact.

"They show high magnetism," Bruce said. He talked for a while about the possible effects of magnetism on global warming, how it all tied back to Indonesia, how Dick was a good mentor for Damian based on their relative MMPI scores, especially in the areas of paranoia and psychasthenia. But his words were coming more slowly, with long pauses between some phrases. Clark watched his feverish eyes start to drift shut, watched him drag them back open, watched them slowly, slowly close again.

He fell asleep in the middle of a discussion of conspiracy theories, his voice trailing away into a thready breath. His hand relaxed under Clark's touch, slackening. His eyes moved jerkily behind his eyelids for a little while, then even that slowed down into deep sleep.

After a while, when he was sure it wouldn't wake him, Clark leaned forward and kissed Bruce's brow, smoothing away the dark hair from his forehead.

All through the night, he listened to Bruce's breath as intently as he had listened to his words, as if each inhalation were infinitely precious, something to be memorized and cherished.


End file.
